


If I Told You I Liked Your Body, Would You Hold It Against Me, Or Stuck Between Sherlock and a Hard Place

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dry Humping, Kissing, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28611492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Several things make themselves immediately apparent to John when he and Sherlock are wedged into the narrow gap between the buildings. Firstly, there is barely enough room for two grown men to occupy the space at the same time. John can feel the rough brick wall of the building behind him, allowing him precious little leeway to move around or change position should he need to. He is now effectively stuck with Sherlock in a very confined space.The second thing that makes itself abundantly clear to John, is that he and Sherlock are facing one another and are now pinned together, front to front. Chest to chest, belly to belly, all the way down to where Sherlock’s shoes straddle John’s on the rubbled floor of the alleyway.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	If I Told You I Liked Your Body, Would You Hold It Against Me, Or Stuck Between Sherlock and a Hard Place

**Author's Note:**

> This smutty ficlet was inspired by a piece of fanart I saw on tumblr. 
> 
> I won't link to it until I get permission to do so from the artist. But I am crap at delayed gratification, so I am posting it now 
> 
> This was not beta read (see above comment about delayed gratification. Hope you enjoy Em!)
> 
> There might be the barest hint of dub con in this.... If you squint.

They have a few yards on their pursuers, which is the _only_ reason Sherlock and John are able to round a tight corner, duck behind a dilapidated set of dusty old wooden shelves and into a narrow space between two brick buildings. Well, rather Sherlock is the one that drags _John_ around the corner and pulls him into the alleyway by a fistful of jumper. John doesn’t have much say in the matter, as Sherlock is, as usual dictating whatever mad rush of insane nonsense they end up doing when things go pear shaped, and John is simply along for the ride. 

Several things make themselves immediately apparent to John when he and Sherlock are wedged into the narrow gap between the buildings. Firstly, there is barely enough room for two grown men to occupy the space at the same time. John can feel the rough brick wall of the building behind him, allowing him precious little leeway to move around or change position should he need to. He is now effectively stuck with Sherlock in a very confined space. 

The second thing that makes itself abundantly clear to John, is that he and Sherlock are facing one another and are now pinned together, front to front. Chest to chest, belly to belly, all the way down to where Sherlock’s shoes straddle John’ on the rubbled floor of the alleyway.

Sherlock’s arm is up, partially shielding John’s face from the mouth of the alley, forearm and palm flat against the wall just next to John’s head. Sherlock’s features are taut and pale in the thin stream of streetlight that makes its way to their hiding place. His head is slightly cocked while he listens to the sound of their pursuers drawing closer and closer to their location. John’s face is centimeters away from being pressed into Sherlock’s chest. He’s finding it rather difficult to focus because he is very afraid to be found by the hired thugs with handguns that had been chasing them only seconds ago. Also, because of this fear, his heart is pounding in his ears, blocking out essential noises. Noises that would indicate the distance and location of their approaching enemies. 

There is a second reason why John’s heart is pounding so relentlessly inside his chest and echoing in all of his pressure points. And that of course is because he’s pressed up against Sherlock Holmes in a tight alleyway. 

He’s imagined similar moments many times before, though not ever like this. Usually, in his fantasies, Sherlock grabs him and crashes their mouths together during some sort of heated argument. Or, alternatively, John encounters Sherlock just leaving the loo, naked, gleaming wet, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, and they end up snogging like fools in the hall outside Sherlock’s bedroom. Then stumbling together to Sherlock’s bed of course. 

In all of his varied fantasies, and there are many, there’s a certain element of surprise, and this situation is definitely surprising. But there’s also this sort of understanding, this pre-recognized consent and mutual acknowledgement that they both _want this_. Of course they both do. Because both of them are in essence, figments of John’s imagination. And John wants Sherlock so bad he can taste it like honey on his tongue.

Now though, pressed up against Sherlock’s long, lanky body, in the musty darkness of some back alley, straining to hear the approaching scrape of their adversary’s boot heels on gravel, the mood is not quite right. Perhaps because the fear of detection and possible death by gunshot wound has never been part of John’s sexual fantasy life. 

The footfalls come closer, and closer, and then pause for a heart wrenching moment near where they’re hiding. Then start moving away. Once they’ve faded off into the night, John releases a pent up breath in a grateful huff and feels his hair flutter gently as above him, Sherlock does the same. “Jesus that was close,” he whispers. 

Sherlock looks down at him, right into his eyes, and John’s breath catches for different reasons. “We should stay here for a few more minutes in case they’re trying to wait us out,” he says. His deep baritone voice is little more than a rumble of low thunder that John can feel from the vantage point of being plastered up against Sherlock’s chest. He nods his agreement so enthusiastically that he’s surprised his head doesn’t come off in the process. 

“Yeah, alright. Sounds good,” he adds, just to be crystal clear that staying pressed up against Sherlock is a thing he is totally fine with.

Sherlock smiles, a wicked little grin teasing at the corners of his full lower lip. “You’re blushing,” he remarks. John can instantly feel every capillary in his face perk up and start blazing at the sound of their names being called. 

“Am not,” he mumbles, tearing his eyes away from Sherlocks’ and training them on the middle of the man’s chest, which is at eye level for him anyway. Damn tall bloody bastard. 

“You _are_ ,” Sherlock says, “and unless you’ve started keeping your service weapon in your front pocket, I’d say your face isn’t the only part of you that’s inflamed.” 

“Sherlock!” John hisses the other man’s name and feels himself flush with embarrassed heat. 

“It’s alright John,” Sherlock has the gall to sound conciliatory. “It’s a normal human reaction to being pressed up against something warm. I promise not to take it personally.” 

John feels a stab of bitter disappointment and a flood of relief crash like conflicting tides inside his chest. If Sherlock is prepared to see his blatant arousal as just a physical reaction, then perhaps he’ll be saved the agony of being caught lusting after one’s flatmate. He shifts just a little bit, trying to move his erect cock away from Sherlock’s body, and only manages to cause a thrilling bit of friction between them. 

Sherlock must feel it too, for he closes his eyes briefly and sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. Is he… _affected_ by John’s closeness? John feels his heart battering away inside his ribcage as his eyes search Sherlock’s face for signs of arousal. Yes… there it is. A slight pink blush on the tops of his ridiculously well defined cheekbones. He’s biting his lower lip a bit and he hasn’t opened his eyes back up. 

John decides to be bold. Why not? It’s now or never, and he’s suffered long enough. Two bloody years now of watching Sherlock’s beautiful form moving around their shared flat in those tight shirts. Two years of pretending not to notice the shape of the man’s slender fingers on the neck of his violin. Two years of biting his lip so he doesn’t call out Sherlock’s name when he reaches orgasm. 

Instead of trying to move away from Sherlock’s body, he grinds into it. He pushes his pelvis against Sherlock’s upper thigh with purpose, and is immediately rewarded by a low moan and an answering press from the taller man. 

Suddenly, John is breathless with want. A swift glance back up at Sherlock’s face shows that his eyes are still closed, long lashes brushing his pinked cheeks. His lip is still captured between his teeth. He’s even more flushed now, and John feels drunk on the power he now wields. The power to get Sherlock Holmes hot and bothered. He experiments with another press of his hips and Sherlock gasps and his eyes fly open again and train themselves, icy blue-green and intent on John’s face. 

“John,” it’s half moan, half whisper and the sound of his name on Sherlock’s lips, said like that, helpless and rough, it makes John _ache_.

“Sherlock,” he whispers back. “You should kiss me.” Their eyes are locked together at this point and so John can see the fire ignite in Sherlock’s gaze, mere seconds before he bends his head and captures John's lips with his own. 

It’s a gentle kiss at first. Just a velvety soft touch of mouth on mouth. John thinks he might have made a silly noise, somewhere between a grunt and a squeak when their lips meet, and he hears and feels Sherlock let out a long breath through his nose. But then, Sherlock nudges John’s upper lip open with his own and teases at his lower one with a soft lick of his tongue. And then John is opening his mouth and allowing Sherlock full access. He’s hungrily sucking Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth and Sherlock is groaning against him. 

They break apart for a scant fraction of a second, during which John can’t help but whisper “fuck” into the heated air between their mouths before they’re kissing again. It’s rougher this time, more urgent. John’s hands are gripping Sherlock by his narrow waist and Sherlock’s long fingers are grabbing thrilling fistfuls of John’s hair, and their kiss has become sloppy and desperate. John uses his hands on Sherlock’s waist to rut against his thigh and he can feel Sherlock’s hardness between them, hears Sherlock let out a sharp moan as the friction ratchets up the searing tension. 

Sherlock is thrusting back now, they’re moving together, rubbing against each other as much as they can in the small space allowed them, and it’s the most exquisitely erotic thing John has ever experienced. His hands travel around beneath Sherlock’s coat to stroke at Sherlock’s low back. There’s a concave dip between the man’s upper back and his ridiculously pert arse, and Sherlock hums his approval with a low moan as John digs his fingers in and pulls Sherlock closer. Sherlock has his thigh wedged between John’s legs at this point and they’ve found something of a rhythm. Even if it is clumsy and jerking and desperate. John knows he won’t last long. The sound of Sherlock’s urgent moans in his ears, the feel of the man’s slick, hot mouth moving against his. The taste and smell of him, combined with the aching pressure against his cock. It’s going to drive him over the edge, far quicker than any sexual encounter ever has before. 

As if sensing this, Sherlock pulls away from him, just far enough to whisper “I want to feel you come.” And those words, _I want to feel you come_ , not ‘hear you’ or ‘see you’ or even just _I want you to come_ , but ‘ _I want to-- *feel*-- you come_ , well, they drive John to the edge. With a few more desperate jerks of his hips against Sherlock’s thigh he feels himself explode with a gasp and a strangled yelp. Sherlock follows him over soon after, whispering “Fuck, John” against his gasping mouth as he groans out his own climax.

For a long moment afterward they rest together, Sherlock’s chin propped on the top of John’s head, John’s mouth up against the long, white column of Sherlock’s neck. Hearts beating and breath gusting out to heat up their hiding place. Without realizing it, John has collapsed against Sherlock, leaning into him as much as the narrow alleyway allows, and he feels Sherlock’s arms come around his neck in a warm embrace. He wishes they could stay like this forever, but they’re in a random, dark alley. They have to get back home, call Lestrade, try to trace who sent the men to try and kill them. All in a day's work when you help a mad consulting detective run around the streets after criminals. 

Eventually, John finds the courage and the energy to slide himself out of Sherlock’s embrace, and after a brief, silent moment of listening at the alleyway, sensing no one nearby, he slips out of the space. He’s sticky and feels incredibly uncomfortable, and one look at Sherlock shows that the other man is looking sheepish and awkward as well. 

Before John can start to worry that their moment in the alleyway was a one time thing though, Sherlock looks around him swiftly to make certain they’re not being observed, and steps up close. He takes John’s face in his hands and gazes into his eyes with that unsettling, laser beam gaze that always makes John’s knees turn to jelly. “I’d like to go home and shower,” he says, his voice gone rough and low. “And then I’d like to fuck you properly. In a bed.”

John can only nod, his eyes locked with the taller man’s, visions of future sexual encounters dancing in his head. Sherlock leans down, delivers a soft kiss to John’s lips, then turns and walks swiftly back toward the street. He is afterall still Sherlock. Even if he’d just come completely undone against John in an alley minutes prior. 

John huffs out a frustrated sigh and trots after him. He’s always struggled to keep up with those long strides. Only this time, he knows exactly where Sherlock is leading him, and he can’t wait to get there.


End file.
